


Breaking Bellic

by altsome2023



Category: Breaking Bad, Gossip Girl, Grand Theft Auto IV, High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:23:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8753251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altsome2023/pseuds/altsome2023
Summary: This is seriously one of the weirdest stories I've ever written. One day, I realized that Breaking Bad, High School Musical, GTA IV, and Gossip Girl take place around the same time and that two of each take place in the same city. This small epiphany inspired me to begin writing the dumbest fiction ever, but I did put effort forth in making the prose itself at least grammatically correct. The story tells of the intertwining of the lives of major characters in each story, which eventually leads to an unstoppable meth empire in New York. Please try to enjoy and feel free to comment any and all thoughts. I'd seriously love to know what people think.





	1. Niko Bellic

Niko looked at his phone, now 12:00. One hour away from the first meeting with the McRearys' since Kate's death, he decided it would be best to leave a little early to allow room for the inevitable faults of traffic. He opened the door to Roman's old cab, a relic he had saved from the fire. It amazed him that less than a year ago, he had been nothing more than a filthy, poor immigrant scumbag. Now, he was at least a filthy rich immigrant scumbag. Sinking down into the plush faux velvet that reeked of cheap cigarettes and stale urine, he put the the key in the ignition and idly hit the two dice gently swinging from the mirror for good luck. The engine sputtered to life, and he cringed as the tire plopped down off of the curb he had rolled it onto, a reminder of the rough night before.

He was steady and calm, ready to receive whatever orders the McRearys would inevitably bring. Each new criminal quest could bring about his death, and he still wasn't sure whether that was a problem. He pulled out into the dense streets, making his way towards Brooklyn. There was a dull pounding in his head as he tried to recall all he could of last night. It was a night that he'd tried to forget it all, but his intoxication was a fleeting solution to an ever growing problem.

He gripped the worn wheel, zooming in with eagle eyes on the roads, thick with pedestrians and other cars. He loved the calm chaos of driving, the synergy between this cab and himself, almost becoming one with the machine after all the years of experience. The shrill, cacophonous ring of his phone broke his laser focus.

"Niko, it is your cousin! Why don't you take me bowling?" Roman eagerly waited for a response, seemingly not noticing that his question was the very last thing Niko wanted to hear. He loved his cousin, but he would never be like him. At a time like this, after so much pain and loss, all Roman could think of was something as trivial and pointless as bowling? Perhaps that was to be admired. A glimmer of happiness shining through the stark grey clouds of life showed not weakness, but humanity. What could that mean, then, for a man who refused to allow even a drop of such joy through the militarized barricade he had put up?

"Cousin, I haven't the time. I'm heading to Packie's. I'll try to phone you when it's over, but damn, I think I might hit the wall." He clicked the phone shut, letting the emptiness loom over him once again. He turned the corner of the Bridge and passed the toll booth into Brooklyn.

"For fuck's sake, it's still five dollars?" He muttered to himself, just loud enough for the operator to hear. Grabbing a single bill out of his denim pockets, he threw the wad into the window of the booth. Despite being a millionaire, the money was forked over begrudgingly, perhaps a remnant of his fading, yet ever present past.

Radio Broker was playing softly in the background. American music was not unfamiliar to Niko, but he had never before enjoyed it as he now did.They were so very different from the songs of his childhood, but perhaps that was why he enjoyed them so.

He began the usual routine of parallel parking in front of the McReary townhouse. He parallel parked on the street, once again, this time, carefully avoiding the curb. No longer trusting the old parking pawl, he yanked down on the parking break, as even the slightest hill now posed the threat of sending one of the only relics of his early days in America cascading down into oblivion.

Taking a deep breath, he waltzed up the short steps, suddenly stopping just short of the door. He faltered, his clenched fist hovering in front of the door for a few interminable seconds, time standing still before he finally mustered the courage to knock. His calloused, scarred knuckles collided with the metal, and their sound, though anticipated, still startled him. Would he ever be truly ready?

His hand hung suspended for a brief moment as Gerry opened the door and smiled widely. Now out of the clink, he seemed happier, but there were still dark bags under his eyes, and out of the corner of his eye, Niko noticed ribbons of silver streak through his fiery red hair, just at the temples. Gerry opened the door wide for him to step through, but Niko faltered again, feeling the ghost of Kate's kiss fall upon his cheek, remembering the day it first happened. He touched his hand to his face without thinking, but quickly pretended to smooth his beard as he walked through.

He'd been sure that the wound would've healed by now, the pain not so fresh, but looking in the house, he felt a chill, an emptiness. Her coat rack was empty, her chair vacant. It was so obvious, everything he'd been trying to ignore. His gaze fell upon her picture on the mantle, a moment frozen in time. It was he who had brought about her end. He had promised Kate that he would give up a life of crime. After witnessing her brothers all become drunken crooks, she wanted nothing more than to live a peaceful and happy life, a life with him in it. What a cruel twist of fate it was that his criminal activity had gotten her killed. Every day, the thought crept into his mind like parasitic vines, slowly creeping up, squeezing tighter and tighter; he should have taken the bullet instead.

"Eh, Niko," Packie greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. He walked him to the couch where his mother, seemingly brittle, but impossibly tough, greeted him with a pleasant nod and absent smile. _Yeah, I know, asshole, I was responsible for your daughter's death._

Packie poured himself a shot of Irish whiskey, gesturing it towards him, but Niko rejected his offer, telling himself it was because he was a professional. In the corner of his mind, he knew that it was really because his liver would suffer a steel-toed kick to the groin if he drank any more, but the little lies he told himself were all that kept him going at times like this.

"Listen, Niko," Packie said. "I think I have a job that will really put the McReary name back out there. It'll be like purgatory all over again."

"Isn't that what you've been saying for two years, now?"

"This time, I mean it. We're gonna be loaded. See, there's these Italian hoods holding a meeting in the Empire Hotel. These guys are the real deal this time, and I just know that they're gonna be packing a lot of heat, but a lot of cash, too." He paused, both for emphasis, and to allow Niko a moment to digest all that he was asking.

"Listen man, I'm no harbor for illusions. This sounds like a lot of fucking work just to grab at the wind."

Just as expected, he made his effort to drive it home. "If we pull this off, we'll be richer than we can imagine, some mob scum will be expunged from these beautiful streets, and my good name will actually mean something again. What do you say, ole' Niko boy?"

He sighed, and considered the stakes. "Well, I've got nothing to live for and nothing to lose."

_"That's the spirit!'_


	2. Walter White

                                                                                     _Two Months Earlier_

 

Walter walked down the dusty road to his Aztec with his hands in the pockets of his chinos. He closed the dirty car door with a defeated sigh and a dull thud. He wrapped his hands around the worn wheel, flexing his fingers and just breathing. It had been almost five months since he was shot. He remembered laying there on the floor, just looking at all of his chemistry equipment, how plain it all was. All he ever was, a mere chemist, was all that he had left. His wife had left him, she no longer loved him. His children were distant, Walter Junior too confused and angry about it all, and Holly too young to even remember him. He remembered what Skyler had said to him all those months ago. She was just waiting for the cancer to come back to rid her of her problems, and he felt the same way. Now that the cancer had returned, he was just waiting to die.

Against all odds, he had not died that fateful night, months before, but once he was out of the hospital, he was back onto the hot bench. However, Saul Goodman, no matter how great a fink, came through for him, helping him gather the finances and the legal necessities to settle. With a sizable sum of the money his criminal ways had earned him, he found the path to freedom. Walter escaped the wrath of the judicial system and walked out of that courtroom a free man. Ever slippery, Hank was never able to finish his case against him, so he had very little work to do to evade of the cold grip of justice.

Now, without a family or anyone to live for, Walter returned to the hell of the meth industry, as it was all he knew anymore. He was just the out of time man with too much time on his hands. Meth gave him something to focus on, something to strive for, something to fill the empty days. Everyone had left him. The only DEA member with the wits to stop him lay dead along with everyone he had ever loved. Dead or forgotten, dead or forgotten, that was the only fate that ever met loved ones.

He pushed the car into drive, and smoothly glided down the blazing asphalt. He turned on the radio and set on his way to his newest lab, a small garage, not unlike the one that Mike had set up for him. As he pulled into the parking lot, he was greeted by his new head of distribution. He was a lot like Jesse in his hoodlum manner, but other than physical resemblance, he saw nothing of his former friend.

"Hey, Walter. You ready to get this crackin?" The new recruit, who's name he hadn't bothered to remember, asked.

 _Whatever happened to Mister White?_ he wondered to himself, almost wistfully.

"Er, yeah, open the barrel of methylamine," he said awkwardly. He no longer cared for decency. What did it matter? He went through guys like this as though they were just cattle. They were drug mules, after all. None had personality, or a lick of intelligence, either. These delinquents knew nothing of the true art and wonder of chemistry, only of the money involved. They were always either on the streets or in the slammer, one easily replacing the last.

After repeating the same process he had been for over a year now, Walter watched as the meth began to brew, slowly dripping.

 

_Drip, drip, drop. Tick, tick, tock._


	3. Chuck Bass

Chuck stared pensively out of his window. There was something that thrilled him about living so far above others, almost as if he were watching them grovel beneath him. He sipped his glass of scotch with poise and grace. Even in the crazy world of the elite he was born into, his manner was always proper. Not always his actions, but the way he carried himself was disciplined, reserved, perhaps even restrained. In some regard, he had a soft way about him.

He stared his phone, waiting for a call from Blair. She had flown to France to leave Henry with his grandfathers for the week. She should have landed in New York by now. He nervously twiddled his thumbs and shifted from one foot to the other. Taking another sip, he looked down to watch the blur of cars, mostly yellow, and beheld the distant streets below.

Just then, he heard the familiar ding of the elevator doors opening. His face lit up in an inextinguishable smile as he opened his arms to collide with Blair's own outstretched appendages, her smile reciprocating his. They embraced each other, both melting into the other's arms. Even a small time apart left them lost. They had truly been inseparable for all of these years. Chuck walked over and patted the spot on the couch next to him.

"How was France?" He inquired.

"It was marvelous," Blair said, sitting. "You know how my father is. Extravagance is a must for any Waldorf," She replied.

"And Henry?"

"A little teary, but he loves my dad and step-father. Their vineyard is one of his favorite places to play."

"I wish you could say the same of my parents," He scoffed.

" Cheer up, Bass, we'll go buy some real-estate to commemorate another year of your dad 'falling' off of a building and, of course, to celebrate my safe return."

"That sounds wonderful, but no more Bass jokes. You _are_ a Bass, after all"

"Well," she said, facetious. "I guess it's a little better than a Grimaldi."

"Hmm," He growled in jest. He raised an eyebrow and extended his arm. She wrapped her arm around his, and together, they strolled out of the apartment and descended gracefully to the bustling New York streets they so loved.

Together they walked, their strides perfectly in sync, as they made their way to the Bass Industries HQ.

"So, what is your presentation to be about, dear?" Blair inquired.

"Ah, shit," Chuck rubbed the back of his neck. "That was kind of the problem. I was hoping I could get some input from you, but your flight was a little late," he said.

"Well, what interests you?" asked Blair.

"I just don't know. I really wanted to take another shot at a club, but after my failed attempt, which shall remain unspoken of..." He paused as Blair giggled, but quickly stifled the twinge of humor that had struck her. 

"Hmm, well," she said, "You're much more mature than you were all those years ago, and you have no one to impress. The lobster's been cooked."

"That's not true, love. I need to impress you."

"Bullshit," Blair squawked, swatting his shoulder. "Anyone your age who can run a billion-dollar company all by himself, be an orphan who's legally related to almost everyone in his clique, and maintain a good family life, all the while using less drugs and women than he did in high school, is impressive enough on his own."

"Fair enough," Chuck said, as he pantomimed stroking a beard pensively. " I have an idea in my head, and though I don't have any presentation prepared, I also write their paychecks and have Manhattan in my pocket. I think I can be very persuasive if I have to. The pupils can't really punish their master for not doing his homework, eh?"

"That's my man," Blair said as she rested her head on his shoulder. They strode down the sidewalk, too in love to care that they had left Chuck's limo driver waiting in vain back at the hotel.


	4. Troy Bolton

****

Life was a real trip in Albuquerque. Troy Bolton, now a senior, no longer had any caring for school. It was just one big joke to him. His father wanted to kill him for it, but what could that loser ever do to stop him? His dad was a fatass, dumbass retard who would never understand the world the way he did. Troy was looking for fun, adventure, and a good high.

Still as in love with Gabriela as when they first met, they became the intoxicated power couple of the school. She helped him worm his way into passing all of his classes. She let him cheat off of all of her answers in shared classes,  and she did it all without scolding him. She knew that she was capable of living a double life, and he had enough trouble living just one. She was a secret junkie, but she did all of the workload at school. He thought that she was absolutely amazing.

His school life differed so greatly from his life at home. In school, he pretended to be studious, focused, ready to face any challenge, but at home, he sat around getting high. It was a distraction for him. A way for him to avoid the fact that he was almost ready to leave the nest, and he was going to fall right out of that tree and snap his baby bird neck.

For a long time, he just sat around the house with his lucky bong, but it wasn't working its magic. It hadn't in a long time. His body had built up such a tolerance to every mind-altering substance he had regularly used, plain old marijuana had almost no effect on him anymore. He was constantly experimenting, searching for something new to make him feel again. He and his theater buddies would often stop at their favorite corner, but Ganja had landed himself in the big house after all these years, so he was out of luck, and more importantly, out of drugs.

His newest recruit for scouting had just bailed on him again. He couldn't deal with this bullshit. Out of good drugs, he started to get irritated.

Troy called Gabriela. "Look, babe, you're a beaner, right? You could hook us up with somethin' good, couldn't you?"

"Babe, I'm not Mexican, and I count on you to supply the drugs, remember? I work on school, you get me some crazy shit."

'"Oh, yeah," He remembered. "See you at school, my nigga."

"You can't say that, honey, you're white."

"Oh yeah. Good thing you're so smart. I don't have the time do deal with this 'racism'  and 'political correctness' shit." Troy hung up his phone and started walking the dusty New Mexico streets past a fairly vacant lot with a little garage door behind. He kicked a rock at the tan Aztec parked outside.

_"What an ugly car."_


	5. Walter White

Looking back, Walter could never forgive himself. The rest of his family thought that he was dead, and the only way he could live with himself was if he kept it that way. It'd be true soon enough. 53, he couldn't stand himself. He had broken Skyler, he had broken Junior, he had broken himself. The only one who had remained unharmed throughout the whole thing was Holly, who would never remember her father who loved her so much.

Maybe not caring was the answer. He thought about it all the time, going crazy, thinking in circles. He may as well have been picking petals off of flowers. _I feel remorse for what I've done, I regret my transgressions not..._

There was no use in wishing Jesse had killed him. He had lived, he had survived against all odds. Maybe it was meant to be. He had briefly changed the world, after all. All the other meth cooks dyed their meth to compete with his, to mimic his perfection. 99.1% pure; no one could equal him, let alone best him.

Still, where was the pride in knowing that he had successfully furthered the pollution of his people? He had seen the type of people he was selling to. They were so desperate for the high they so craved, they couldn't see they were killing themselves. What kind of monster could do that? Who could continue to deliver blows to a victim so silent, yet pitifully begging for mercy?

Cold, hard cash could never satiate the ever expanding black hole that had replaced his heart. Money couldn't buy him happiness, nor a prettier misery. Laundering it was his only concern. It had become more of an obstacle than anything else. It almost made him laugh when he remembered that money was the reason he got into this mess. So much death, so much pain, and at first, he didn't even have the seven-thousand dollars needed to initiate this vertigo of torment and suffering.

He fondled his worn black hat, tiny fabric pills catching on his calloused thumbs. His hands were dry and slightly wrinkled. The beating of the sun, the years of washing cars, the manual labor and rubber gloves, they had all taken their toll.

_Oh, the things I've lived through, the things these hands have felt._

They had felt his wife's own hands as they professed their love for one another, legally bound for all eternity, or so he'd thought; his first child, all red and crying, both the baby and himself; his second child, a surprise, but a joy, no less. His love for her was immeasurable, no matter when she was born.

Still, his hands had seen much that had gone amiss. His hands had run through his hair as it began to fall out, tufts of soft brown gracefully falling to the floor. They had felt ricin sift through them as he prepared to poison an innocent child. They'd felt the steely grip of a gun, ready to kill. They had felt his own blood as it exuded from his body, the silver kiss of death looming over him.

   He had bought a new apartment a couple of blocks away, its emptiness a stark reminder of all that had been lost. One of the hardest things for him to lose was Hank. As irritating as he could be at times, he loved his brother-in-law. There was not a day that passed that he didn't grieve him. They said that the mourning phase would pass, but if anything, it had gotten worse. Hank was hot on his trail from the moment that Heisenberg had emerged. A genius with an aptitude for his trade seldom seen in the workforce. He was perhaps most devastated that, with deft hands, Hank had lead himself to his own death, all the while hating Walt. He died in vain. Marie, now a widow, and everyone believing that it was his fault. Was it?

    He heard the blissful crunch of his boots on the rocky, dusty sand beneath him as he walked out to his car. The breeze was cool and kind to his weathered face. He got in his car, his jacket, a dusty brown, rustling as he slid in the driver's seat. He put the key in the ignition and his car roared to life. He patted the dash, covered in a thin film of dust. He coughed as the allergens enveloped his tired lungs.

The meth was cooling inside the garage, waiting to be broken into shards, a tedious task he left to the peons. His  job was done here, so why wait around to watch his cronies do the grunt work? At this point, he didn't even care if they stole the stuff. He was pretty sure some of them used, but it didn't matter. Idiocy resulted in docked pay, so anyone with habits knew better than to cross him. He could have his suspicions without any retribution, but any proof, and they're out. He made sure that everyone on board knew that. That was his only code. Those caught could easily be replaced, so he never worried about being understaffed.

He was sure to separate himself from the drugs he sold to protect himself. He stayed far away from distribution.Things all started to go wrong, last time, when he got too close, and too comfortable. He decided to operate like Gus Fring. He was the only thing that ever got Gus caught, so he figured that if he never hired anyone like himself, he'd be fine. He had been the one to stir the pot, the one who had derailed the entire operation. If he could undo his very nature, he would be fine.

He pulled out his phone and checked the time, the device dwarfed by his hands. His lockscreen was still a family picture that had been taken a little under two years ago. How could he have possibly expected Skyler to live like that? Junior? How long did he really expect to fool everyone? He could barely deal with his own lie, now letting it manifest itself into the hearts of all he held dear; a hideous monster rearing its ugly head.

He ran his fingers through his hair, not yet accustomed to having regained it. To him, the end to his baldness symbolized the end of an era. The end of the traumatic cancer experience, and more importantly, the end of the Heisenberg that evolved into the nucleus of his strife. With the return of his cancer, this time, he chose to accept it. He chose peace as he lived out the rest of his days doing what he loved, chemistry.

He remembered when he had first been diagnosed with lung cancer. Everyone was so panicked. People almost treated him like a celebrity. Perhaps the most striking part was Junior's website, SaveWalterWhite.com. He sometimes looked at it, purely for the sake of reminiscing. The end cut the deepest; _And every day that goes by is one less day I'll have with him. And I don't want to tell my little sister about my dad. I want her to know him for herself._ Funny thing, life was. Junior couldn't stand him, having one less day with his dad was a gift, and although he was still kicking, he knew in his bones that Holly would never know him.

He heard a sudden _ding_ as he looked back and saw some dumb teenager had hit his car with a rock. Angrily muttering to himself, he pulled out and whipped around, dust flying as his car practically did a donut. He pulled out to the road and rolled down his window.

"Hey, come on!" He yelled.

"Whatever, old man." The delinquent responded. "You're that nerd ex-teacher everyone was talking about. We all saw your picture on the news. Is it true that you sell coke?"

"Well, son, I see no use in lying to you," He tossed a baggie of crystal out the window. "Tell on me, if you want. You'll be dead before you take ten steps."

"Naw, naw, homes. I was in the market for some substances. Of the mind-altering kind, that is. Will this get me and my girl high?"

"Higher than a kite, I can assure you. I'm the best chemist in the region. No. Scratch that. The country."

"Sweet, thanks bro. How much you want for this?"

"Consider it a free trial. If you should find yourself wanting more, I hope you possess enough brain cells to figure out where to find me." He started to roll up the windows and pulled out closer to the road. "Oh, and one more thing:"

_"Does this look like coke to you_?"


	6. Chuck Bass

Hand in hand with Blair, it seemed to Chuck that nothing could go wrong. It seemed the world, as cruel as it may be, always had a strange way of righting itself. He didn't know whether it was purely ebb and flow or a full-out war between forces of good and evil. He had certainly seen his fair share of both, and living in New York definitely didn't help. He'd had a firsthand look at the sheer magnitude of political and economic corruption, clandestine meetings under lock and key sealing the financial fate of all, both directly and indirectly, involved. As the rich got richer, the poor got poorer, and it was a constant revolution, a juggling act between wealth and poverty.

Realizing that he had left Arthur behind, they decided to walk to the Bass Industries HQ. It was quite lengthy, but he truly felt that any time spent with the love of his life was free of pain. Her sheer presence alleviated the aching of his feet, confined in patent leather loafers. She was an example of the good in the world. Life was on the upswing. Dan and Serena had finally gotten married, he had a wonderful son, something that he couldn't have even imagined just a few short years ago. He had Monkey, who, fortunately, was excellent with children. He and Henry got along swimmingly, even when he got his tail, hair, or ears pulled when Henry was a baby. Lily, legally his mother, and more of one than his biological, had come to her senses after Serena's wedding. Rufus Humphrey was the best thing that ever happened to her, and their annulment devastated all around them when his father returned. They had been seeing eachother for the past few months, and it seemed each was in love again, all anyone could ever ask for. Still, with everything on the upswing, sitting in the eye of the hurricane created an ominous feeling of impending despair.

The thought of his father was crushing, enraging, it shot searing pain across his mind. It summoned waves of nostalgia, self-hatred, pity, a whirlwind of sadness, a vertigo of torment. Bart Bass was a snake in the grass from his first breath to his last. Chuck felt a twinge of regret as he looked back on his drug-riddled past, partially initiated by his father's neglect and duplicity. He laughed to himself, wondering how he never became a stripper or pornstar with all those daddy issues. His father never loved him, and yet, Chuck became just like him. He had never felt love before, so he had just bought it, still, somehow, the offbrand affection was never quite as good as genuine devotion, no matter how many mind-altering substances he used to mask that fact. They were merely a temporary solution to a permanant, and increasingly serious problem. A stern, cold, formidable man produced a stern, cold, formidable son, or so it seemed. Blair seemed to have galvanized the kindness in his heart. He would never be the same after, with deft hands, she remade him, nor would he ever want to recede back into the shell of a man he once was.

Chuck grasped the cold handle of the door as he held it open for his wife to step through. Her delicate hand slipped behind her to hold the door for him in return, an eighteen karat gold and diamond ring glistening in the early morning light. He checked his phone for the time, it now being nine fifty-three. His meeting was scheduled for nine thirty.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting, gentlemen. Oh, and Lily, of course," he added, opening his briefcase. "I was just a little caught up in traffic," He said, winking at Blair.

"Better late than never, dear," Lily said, peering from behind her glasses with an eyebrow raised and her hands on her hips.

After almost two hours of sitting through the most boring aspects of these meetings, just nodding his head, resting his chin between his forefinger and his thumb, he saw that it was coming to a close, so quickly, he packed his notes, prepared to make a brief speech.

He cleared his throat, "If I could have all of your attention please, I have a business proposal to make, involving purchasing a new building." Blair put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them encouragingly before pulling out a chair, crossing her legs elegantly. I have a vision; the hottest place in town." To add emphasis, he swept his arms across, looking longingly into the distance. "This will be a shining beacon of the ephemeral, yet everlasting sixties. I want a diner to revive the hazy wonder of the days of yore. It will be a nostalgia trip, even for those who weren't alive during those great times. I mean, who can't resist the sweet scent of a fading youth brought back to life by crumbling, faded bricks in Brooklyn?"

The men around the table mumbled among themselves, shuffling papers and pulling out laptops. "I promise, it will be an auspicious opportunity for the expansion of Bass Industries into more public oriented territories, not tarnishing our elitist reputation, but allowing those who are more of the five percent than the one percent to partake in the fine dining experience with a reminder of the sweeter days, now shrouded in a sanguine mist." He clasped his hands together, twisting like twin serpents as he rubbed them together.

"In other words; the people are gonna love it." He stepped back, looking satisfied with his last-minute speech.

After several minutes of hasty, hushed discussion, one of his executives, David Chimes, announced, "Well, Mister Bass, it will probably take a while to sort out the details, but currently, the location in question is definitely within budget, and it is properly zoned. There are a lot of details to work out, but things are looking like a 'go' for this little whim of yours."

"Thank you, David," He looked up, extending a hand. "Thank you all, lady and gentlemen," He said, smiling at his legal mother.

He and Blair lingered as the room began to clear. After everyone else had left, Lily approached him. "So, Charles, what's this all about?"

"I know it's rather abnormal, almost outlandish by Bass standards, but I really wanted to connect with the people here. I've spent my whole life in Manhattan, but of the millions in New York, my personal directory has been confined to the same hundred socialites since the day I was born. It's time I got out for a change."

"Well, I actually find that rather noble. It is important to acknowledge the common folk. I suppose you were still looking for upper middle class, though."

"Yes, but only because I want the joint to be classy and tasteful. Its going to still be fancy. I don't want some cheap Chuck-E-Cheeze where plebeians are free to roam like the cattle they are. I want style, taste, glamour offered to the doctors, lawyers, and businessmen of this world, those who make at least half a million a year. It's my personal philosophy that if one possesses the money needed to get in, he is suited to mingle among the other attendees."

"You know, I bet Rufus would love to help with the decoration. You know that he's still mentally living in those days that he never actually lived, so I'm sure that he'd be just estatic. I'll have to tell him when I get home."

"Honestly, there's no one I'd rather have on the job. Thanks, Lily." He embraced her, knowing that she loved him as her own, just as she did Dan and Jenny. Despite her troubled past, she had evolved into a caring, kind woman. He figured that they all had similar stories. Almost everyone he knew well had overcome adversity in their own ways. Each of his friends was a phoenix, emerging from his own ashes. He realized that perhaps the reason he was building this diner was to grant others the power to revisit days past, while looking within themselves to see how far they'd come since then.

  _This diner would be his place of redemption and rebirth._


End file.
